


Mercy On Your Weary Soul

by spnblargh



Series: Keep The Lights On [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10x11 coda, Aftercare, Dom/sub, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Sub Headspace, bottom!Dean, dom!Dean, erotic asphyxiation, sub!cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:50:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnblargh/pseuds/spnblargh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Dean became a demon, he broke things off with Castiel, afraid that the Mark would make him do something he'd regret. Now, months later, there's an itch under Castiel's skin that he can't shake, and the only person who can satisfy it is making every effort to keep his distance. Dom!Dean/Sub!Cas, 10x11 coda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mercy On Your Weary Soul

"How is he?"

Despite the fact that Sam is miles away and talking to him on the phone, Castiel is  _certain_  that Sam is frowning at the question. "He's fine. I think he's been doing a little better, actually."

Relief floods through him, pushing out the bitterness that's been taking up space for many weeks now. "That's good. That's really good."

"Yeah." Sam exhales. "He's done a complete one-eighty, seriously. I barely recognise him now: all the exercising, no alcohol, celery and carrot smoothies...I swear I actually caught him listening to some relaxation tapes the other day."

Castiel paces a circle around his motel room. He's been doing that a lot recently. Good thing he's checking out in an hour or he'd have eventually worn a hole into the floor. "He's looking to you for guidance, then."

"I guess?" Sam huffs. "It wasn't my idea, I swear."

"I don't mean it as a criticism, Sam. You are a very good role model for him. For a lot of people, myself included." Castiel smiles. "You are remarkably strong for someone who has suffered so much. Dean was bound to pick up on your secrets eventually."

Sam snorts, which Castiel has learned is Winchester code for feeling flattered or embarrassed. "Yeah, well, it's weird to see, I'm telling you." He pauses, hesitating. "You'll have to come see it for yourself."

Castiel's stomach sinks. They've had many conversations about this, although this is the first time that Sam's segued into the topic so bluntly. "I'll come by soon, Sam. I just have―"

"You have duties, yeah, I know." He sounds polite, but it's very clear that Sam's running out of patience for Castiel's excuses. He's starting to sound a little like Dean, actually. Not that Dean's asked to see him recently. "It's been a while though, Cas. You know that he―well,  _we_  miss you. The bunker's your home, too. Don't be a stranger, okay?"

Castiel sighs. Despite the Grace coursing through him, he feels so tired; a kind of bone-weary exhaustion that shouldn't plague an angel (even a poor excuse for one). He doesn't have the energy to argue.

"I'm just checking out of a motel now," Castiel says. "I can reach Kansas by six."

"Oh, great!" The enthusiasm in Sam's voice warms him. "That's great. I'll let Dean know."

His stomach clenches nervously.  _Dean._

"See you soon," Cas says, then hangs up. He glances at the clock on the wall, and feels the tension in his shoulders knot even tighter.

\---

The long drives always give Castiel plenty of time to think. Sometimes that's a blessing. Right now, though, Castiel wishes his mind would just shut off for once. 

He finds himself wondering about Dean, about what happened between them. Things had been going so well ― all of that tension over the years had finally been torn down and replaced with an arrangement that fulfilled Castiel in a way that nothing else could. They would meet up, fall into one another, and Dean would take control of Castiel's body, elicit pleasure and pain that overwhelmed his senses. Sometimes the pain outweighed the pleasure, but it was still good.  _So_  good, even if Castiel often walked away feeling like he'd been scraped raw.

Eventually, that dynamic began to change, too. At first it had been all about the sex, the power play, but then Dean began to insist on something he liked to call 'aftercare'. Castiel hadn't understood the brain fog that came over him after their sessions, the flip-flopping emotions that tried to push tears down his cheeks. Then Dean started to hold him afterwards, caress him, kiss his eyelids and forehead and lips; made him feel _important_. That fog fizzled out after maybe ten minutes of aftercare, but sometimes they'd stay together for an hour or two, until they both felt ready enough to go back to their mostly unhappy lives.

For a while, though, they shared in a unique kind of happiness, only found when they were together. It helped Castiel persevere through the harder days.

Then, suddenly, it all stopped. 

Dean started to skip out on their meet-ups. At first Castiel thought his excuses were legitimate ― there's a case, he can't get away from Sam, something like that ― but it reached a point where they hadn't seen each other in over a month, and Castiel was growing suspicious. The itch under his skin was growing, too. He's pretty sure that itch is what finally pushed him into confronting Dean about it.

Confronting Dean Winchester on anything remotely serious is always a difficult task, especially if it's of a personal nature. Perhaps it was a poor decision to confront him over the phone, but Castiel had been a two days drive from Kansas at the time, and he couldn't put it off any longer.

It had taken some coaxing to get Dean to talk. When he finally did, however, the bottom of Castiel's stomach had dropped out ―

_"I think we should stop seeing each other. Outside of...work."_

_"Why?"_  He was so afraid he'd done something wrong, that he'd messed this up somehow.

 _"Because of so many reasons, Cas. I―"_  He cut himself off, exhaled harshly, then continued, " _The Mark is eating_   _at me. I don't trust myself to―to do those things to you, and not take it too far. I am_  losing  _it."_

" _I thought that it was helping you,"_   Castiel protested. It helped them both, although perhaps Cas had overestimated Dean's dependency on it. " _I thought that this was a way for you to take back control. To fight the Mark in some capacity."_

 _"I know, Cas, I know. I just, I can't...I just can't. Not anymore."_   Dean stopped and sighed.

It became apparent to him then that Dean didn't want to fight about this. He sounded so exhausted. It was clear that he had far more pressing matters to deal with. Perhaps Castiel had, in actual fact, underestimated his  _own_  dependency on Dean. Dean was afraid, genuinely and truly afraid of what the Mark was turning him into, and Castiel was trying to fight him for his own selfish needs.

A shame like no other had coiled in Castiel's gut. He'd bowed his head, embarrassed. What right did he have to ask a man who barely had control of his own body, to take control of Castiel's as well?

" _I'm sorry, Dean."_   Castiel breathed out gently into the receiver.  _"It's okay. Whatever you need to do, that's...that's okay. I understand."_

 _"Cas, I'm so sorry,"_  Dean said, his voice taking on a strange pitch. He sounded upset, but Castiel isn't entirely certain why he would be.  _"If things were different, you know, that―that I―"_

 _"It's okay, Dean."_  Castiel clenched his fist until his palm started to sting, hopefully a decent enough distraction to keep him from doing something even more embarrassing, like crying.  _"You don't have to justify yourself to me."_

 _"I still have you though, right? As―as a friend."_   Dean sucked in a shaky breath.  _"As family."_

It had taken a long time for Castiel to answer. He'd looked to the sky, inhaling deeply, trying to push back his emotions and centre his thoughts.

 _"Of course you do. I'll always be here,"_   he answered finally. " _You have me."_

It wasn't long afterwards that Metatron killed Dean and the Mark brought him back as a demon. In hindsight it was a good thing they broke it off, really ― Castiel had spent enough time wallowing in self-pity; to  _also_  have to deal with a lost relationship would have been far worse. At least he'd had a few weeks to deal with the rejection before he thought he'd lost Dean permanently.

He doesn't like to reminisce on that time, when his dying Grace had left him bedridden and completely miserable. Sam had been searching for Dean while Castiel had been truly and utterly pathetic. Hannah's capacity to put up with him was truly astonishing.

When Dean came back to them, whole and human again, he and Castiel hadn't had much opportunity to talk. Castiel's not sure he even knows what to say, whether the nature of their relationship should be brought up in conversation ever again.

That brings him to here and now, cruising along the highway towards Lebanon, a whirlwind of emotions coiling in his gut. He drums his fingers on the wheel, winds down the window and lets the breeze run through his hair. Nothing really distracts him, though ― the closer he gets to the bunker, the worse he feels. 

Of all the places on Earth, Castiel still considers the bunker to be his home. That makes his reluctance to go there even more depressing.

\---

True to his word, Castiel arrives at the bunker around six that evening. The months have been turning cooler with winter closing in, and night has already descended by the time he steps out of the car. He breathes in the chilly air, pulling his coat tighter around him. Some days he feels the temperature more than others. It's just another one of the quirks of walking around with a mismatched Grace.

Dean's the one who answers the door, much to Castiel's surprise. He rakes his eyes over Dean, taking in every tiny detail, noting the healthy flush in his cheeks, the absence of alcohol on his breath. He looks good, just like Sam said. While Castiel's feelings towards Dean are definitely complicated, he is glad that Dean is taking care of himself.

"Hey," Dean says. He stands there in the doorway, mouth open slightly, like he wants to go on but can't figure out how to put words into sentences. Eventually he settles on, "Good to see you, Cas."

"Hello, Dean. It's good to see you, too."

Again, Dean looks as if he wants to say something more. Castiel waits patiently. He keeps his arms at his sides, resisting the urge to fold them over his chest.

Dean rubs his hand over his face, apparently giving up on whatever it is he wants to say. "Come on in," he says, and ushers Castiel in with a hand pressing gently to the middle of his back. Castiel tries not to enjoy the touch too much.

Downstairs, he finds Sam in the war room with a series of tomes and a cup of coffee. He supposes that Sam must have given up the alcohol as well for solidarity. If Castiel was human, he might have been disappointed; a beer would do wonders to settle his nerves right about now.

Sam wraps him up in a hug, which he returns gratefully. He thinks he can feel Dean's eyes on them, but when he glances over Sam's shoulder, Dean's disappeared into the kitchen.

"You make yourself at home, okay?" Sam says.

Castiel nods, although he's not sure if that's possible, given the circumstances. He can try, at least.

\---

After two days of Castiel going out of his way to avoid Dean, Sam starts to notice that something's up.

"Did something...happen?" Sam asks him once Dean's stepped out to grab groceries from the store. "You two are acting weird."

Castiel has no idea how to answer him. He settles for merely shrugging, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Cas?"

"Sam." Castiel palms the back of his neck, a nervous tic he picked up at some point. He thinks that Jimmy Novak might have had a similar habit when he was still alive. "I don't know."

"You don't know what?"

"I don't know how to talk about this," Castiel says, gesturing helplessly. "Things are... _strained_ , between Dean and I at the moment, yes."

"Did you two...?"

Castiel stares resolutely at a point beyond Sam, his pulse drumming incessantly in his neck, in his palms. His Grace must be acting out again. "Did we what?" Cas asks.

Sam sighs, raking a hand through his hair. "I mean, did you guys...break up?" Castiel's eyes snap to his. "Did you break up? I mean, maybe I'm completely off here, but I thought―"

"Sam," Castiel cuts him off, his insides turning cold. Did Dean say something? "What are you talking about?"

Sam huffs, his cheeks turning pink. "I mean, correct me if I'm wrong here, but you two were...a  _thing_ , right?" Sam glances around the room, like he'll find someone to back him up if he looks hard enough. "Dean never said anything, but I knew he was sneaking out pretty regularly, and I thought I saw him texting you more, and I just, I dunno. I put two and two together, I guess." He shrugs. "I'm right, aren't I?"

For a solid ten seconds, Castiel just stares at him, chewing on the inside of his cheek. After some deliberating, he carefully replies, "I think that Dean should be here for this conversation."

"Did Dean break it off?" Sam plows on, apparently pleased that his deduction was confirmed.

Castiel sighs, rubbing at his temple. A shadow of a headache lingers behind his eyes. "Yes, he did, but we weren't really... _together_." Castiel stares at his shoes. "Not really."

"When was this?"

"Before Metatron―" Castiel stops, rephrases, "before Dean became a demon."

"Have you two, you know...talked about it since then?"

"No, we've barely spoken since he came back."

"Well, maybe you should―"

"Sam." Castiel pauses. Inhale, exhale. "While I appreciate what you're trying to do―"

"It's really not my business, yeah, I know." Sam raises his hands in surrender. "Sorry."

\---

That afternoon, Castiel's standing in the kitchen, staring at the Winchester's small collection of coffee blends. There are three to choose from: a medium roast, a dark roast, and a green blend. He's been standing there for far longer than should be necessary.

The Winchesters haven't found any new cases since Castiel arrived. Honestly, Castiel wishes that they would find  _something_. If Castiel came with them, he'd have the hunt to focus on, and if he stayed behind, he could at least enjoy his time at the bunker for a little while without them. He does find a sense of comfort from the bunker, but everything's just so... _difficult_  at the moment.

Part of him just wants to leave. He's been here a few days ― that should be enough to appease Sam, surely. 

Another part of him, however, wants to stick around a bit longer. Maybe patch things up with Dean. Even if they can't have what they once were, they should at least be able to talk without this awkwardness hanging over them. 

What Castiel wants more than anything, though, is for him and Dean to go back to what they had. Maybe Dean's feelings on the subject have changed. It's been many months since that phone call. 

Castiel just can't decide on what he wants to do. His indecisiveness is infuriating. It feels like a bigger deal than it actually is, like if he goes now then he and Dean will be over for good. The weight of it sits in the back of his mind, growing larger and larger until everything's a complete blur, cancelling out any and all rational thought. There's nothing but white noise in his head.

"Cas?"

It's Dean's voice that pulls him back into the present. Castiel blinks, meeting his concerned frown. "Dean."

"Where did you go?" Castiel's confused for a moment, so Dean clarifies, "I said your name like three times."

"My apologies," Castiel sighs. "I was..." He sweeps a hand towards the coffee. "I was deciding what kind of coffee I should have."

Dean's frown deepens. He presses his hand to the kettle, then huffs. "The kettle's practically cold. How long have you been standing here?"

Castiel shrugs. "Too long, apparently."

"Just pick a blend, Cas. No big deal." 

He brushes past him, opening the cutlery draw and pulling out a knife, then sets it on the cutting board. He makes his way towards the fridge, and while his back's turned towards him, Castiel asks, "Which one should I have?"

"Uh, whichever one you want?" Dean straightens, holding margarine, salmon, and a packet of something green that's a far cry from Dean's regular diet. "Medium roast is the one I usually have. Dark roast is for special occasions, like when I'm about to pass out but I need to drive for six hours. That green blend stuff is Sam's." His nose wrinkles in distaste. "It's got those...what are they called? Anti-oxidants or whatever. More of his hippie crap. Which means I should probably be drinking it," he adds, staring down at the offending coffee in puzzlement. "Huh."

Castiel chews his lip. Even with Dean's knowledge, he can't bring himself to make a decision. He massages his temples in the hope that it'll disperse some of the brain fog. "This should be a simple task," he says quietly. "Why is this so difficult?"

"It's just coffee, dude," Dean says, which doesn't help at all. Then he abandons his sandwich-making and comes over to stand beside him. He grabs the green blend and drags it forward. "Have this one. You'll probably like it."

Castiel nods slowly. "Alright."

For a moment they both just stand there, both of them staring at this coffee. Castiel makes no effort to re-boil the kettle, so Dean eventually sighs and does it for him. 

"Go sit down," Dean tells him.

Castiel frowns. "Why?"

"Because I'm gonna make your damn coffee. Go on," he says, ushering him out. "It's my kitchen, and you've overstayed your welcome. Out."

"But Dean―"

"Nope, out you go." When Castiel means to argue further, Dean interrupts him. "Cas, it's fine. I told you to sit down, so quit complaining and go  _do it_."

Castiel stares at him, searching his face. It's highly unlikely that Dean means it as a command, something that he  _must_  obey. It sounds close enough, though, if the pleasant tingle along his skin is anything to go by.

He tries to reply but finds his mouth a little too dry. He settles for nodding, then turns and heads for the couch.

Maybe five minutes later, Dean joins him, handing over not only a hot cup of coffee, but a sandwich of his own. "I put extra kale on it for you. Apparently that's some kind of superfood? I dunno. There's like a whole tin of salmon on there, too. Omega-3 and all that."

"I don't need to eat, Dean," Cas tells him, but Deam waves him off.

"Don't care. Angels need superfoods, alright? Eat up."

He hates himself for it, but Castiel finds himself asking, tentatively, "Do I have a choice?"

Dean takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing leisurely, then replies, "Hell no. That's an order."

"Alright," Cas says simply, then starts to eat.

They eat in silence for a minute or so, Castiel observing Dean's disgusted faces with great amusement. It would seem that the diet is not going so well. Castiel, meanwhile, actually finds the sandwich quite good, even if the kale's practically bursting with molecules. It's a unique flavour, at the very least.

On the TV, there's a deep, serious voice talking over the top of different video cuts, all showing different women that have apparently been murdered. It appears to be a documentary about serial killers.

"Why are we watching this?" Dean says eventually, frowning at the TV. 

"I'm not sure," he answers. It was already on when Castiel sat down. Sam must have been watching it earlier.

Dean mutters something and then snatches up the remote, flicking over to a film Castiel recognises (Thanks to Metatron's meddling) as  _Men In Black._ Judging by Dean's expression, it's definitely a movie that he enjoys. Castiel will have to pay extra attention, then. 

The film progresses, interrupted every five minutes by an ad for some strange human appliance, which Castiel actually finds more interesting than the film itself. Dean looks at him with utter disgust when Castiel mentions this.

Dean's arm rests across the back of the couch, able to wrap around Castiel's shoulders if he so chose.

Eventually, not even the ads can hold Castiel's attention, and he finds his mind drifting.

It's strange to think that Sam  _knows._ Dean wouldn't be happy that Castiel confirmed it. Then again, there's a small part of him that feels smug about it, pleased that he captivated Dean's attention enough that Sam started to get suspicious. Bitterness seeps back into his thoughts soon enough, however. There's a certain sadness that comes over him when he notes the space between them on the couch, how long it's been since Castiel felt Dean's hands him.

As if by thought alone, Dean's hand brushes against the back of Castiel's neck. He only barely manages to keep himself from jerking forward with shock. Instead, he stays perfectly still, just in case any sudden movements will chase Dean away. His fingers are cool against Castiel's skin, a calming balm for his bubbling anxieties. Dean's attention is still focused on the film, like he's not even aware he's touching him.

This is something they'd do, back when they were together. Sometimes, their scenes would play out slowly: before the sex, they'd spend time watching something on the crappy motel TV, slipping into their respective headspaces. Castiel would curl up with Dean, rest his head on his shoulder or in his lap, and Dean would place his hand at the back of his neck, stroke the skin, play with his hair. It was part of the foreplay, really ― the touches would be gentle, sweet, until Dean would tighten his grip on his neck, and guide him towards whichever part of his body he wanted Castiel's mouth to go.

It's the same thing Dean's doing right now, only Castiel's uncertain whether it will eventually lead to sex. Either way, the familiarity is strong enough to get a reaction out him. His blood starts travelling south.

After a few minutes, Castiel squirms. This proves to be a mistake. Dean seems to come out of whatever daze he was in, and once he realises what he's doing, he snatches his hand back.

"Sorry," he grunts, folding his arms across his chest.

"Dean, it's okay," Castiel says, tentatively touching Dean's knee. Dean recoils, and disappointment curls thick in Castiel's stomach. "Really. It's okay."

"No, Cas." Dean gets to his feet, even though the film's not over yet. "I'm, uh, gonna go have a nap."

"Dean..."

Nodding to himself, Dean turns to leave, but Castiel calls to him again.

"I liked it."

"Cas, don't."

"I miss it, Dean. Please."

"Cas, I said  _no_ ," he growls, meeting Castiel's gaze. "We can't. I'm sorry."

He sweeps out of the room before Castiel can say anything else. Miserably, Castiel resigns himself to the couch for a few minutes more, then switches off the TV and walks outside.

\---

He considers just driving off. The Grace is enough to mute his emotions, but not completely. Regret lurks in the back of his mind, and even after walking around aimlessly for hours, he feels no better for it.

The sun's almost set by the time he returns to the bunker. He wraps his hand around the keys in his pocket. For a minute or two, he lingers by his car, indecisive. Eventually, however, he forces himself back inside, figuring he can leave in the morning at least. He doesn't like driving at night; loneliness finds him more easily.

Despite the tantalising smell of dinner, Castiel marches straight into his room. Well, it's not  _his_ room, exactly, just a guest bedroom, but it's close enough. The bed is sturdy, easily accepting his weight when he collapses on top of it.

Castiel closes his eyes and rests, his consciousness drifting somewhere between asleep and awake. When he was human, he struggled to fall asleep, overwhelmed by vivid dreams. Now, he dreams of nothing. His mind is always empty. He's not sure which one he prefers.

When he opens his eyes again hours later, his room is bathed in darkness. He could have sworn he'd gone to sleep with his lamp still on, but he's not sure. The clock on his bedside table reads 01:14.

Light creeps in through the crack beneath his bedroom door. Someone's still awake, then, which is not unusual in the Winchester household. Curiously, Castiel pulls himself to his feet, making his way out of the room.

In the hallway, Dean hovers outside his own room, hand on the doorknob. He's staring at Castiel, emotions at war on his face.

"You didn't come to dinner," Dean says in greeting.

"I wasn't hungry," Castiel tells him.

"Hasn't stopped you before," Dean says carefully.

Castiel shrugs. He stands there for a moment, considering his answer, then gives up. As he's turning to head back inside, Dean stops him.

"Cas, wait a sec." He takes two steps forward, but doesn't come any closer. "We should...talk, I guess." The suggestion puts a sour expression on his face. "I mean, if you want to."

"Okay," Castiel says simply. He approaches Dean slowly, until he's barely an arm's length away from him. "Let's talk."

Dean's eyes widen. "Not out here! Dude, are you crazy? Sam's just down the hall." 

He pushes his bedroom door open, gesturing towards it. Castiel sighs but walks through with his chin held high. Dean shuts the door behind them with a soft  _click_.

Dean's room is the same as it always is, with a large, inviting bed and the room lit in an orange glow. Castiel walks to the middle of the room and then turns on his heel, waiting for Dean to speak.

Eventually, Dean says, "I'm sorry."

Castiel looks at the ground. "For what?"

He hears Dean approach, watches his feet come into view. He looks up then, meets Dean's gaze head on.

"I hurt you. Before," he says, waving towards the door. "When we were watching TV."

"Only then?"

Dean's eyes narrow and then he looks away, guilt marring his features. "No. For before, too. For...for breaking it off."

Castiel says nothing. He stands silent, waiting for Dean to continue.

"I broke it off over the phone. That was cold." Dean rubs the back of his head nervously. "I was freaked out by what the Mark was doing to me, and I didn't want to hurt you, but in the end I did, just in a different way, so..." He spreads his arms out helplessly. "I was trying to protect you, and I screwed that up. I'm sorry."

Castiel nods, folding his arms across his chest. He exhales through his nose. "Dean, I can't do this."

Fear appears in Dean's eyes. "Do what?"

"This." He gestures between them. "Friendship, nothing more. It doesn't...it doesn't _feel_ right."

Sighing, Dean massages his temple. "I'm sorry. It would have been easier if we never started anything to begin with."

"I don't regret what we had," Castiel says, indignant. "I just...I wish we could...try again."

Dean glances up, frowning. "Try again?"

"What we had before."

Dean groans, rubbing a hand over his face. "I can't. You know that."

"Why not?" he challenges.

"Because I  _can't_ , Cas." There's frustration on Dean's face, but something akin to despair, too. "I'm on detox, remember? That means no sex, no violence, and definitely no goddamn combination of the two." He exhales harshly. "How fucked up is it that sex and violence have anything to  _do_  with us? It's so freakin' twisted, Cas."

Suddenly Castiel's indignation switches to outrage, a stormy expression descending across his face. He takes two pointed steps closer, getting up in Dean's space. Dean doesn't back down.

"Don't you say that," Castiel growls. "Don't you say that about―about what we had. Of all the horrible, violent things that have happened to us in our lives, this... _this_  is where you draw the line?" Castiel's hands ball into fists, trembling at his sides. "While there were times when you inflicted pain upon me, I did not see it as an act of violence. Our relationship was not  _violent_  , Dean. It was...it made me feel like―" He looks away when the corners of his vision become blurry. He sucks in a deep gulp of air. "―Like despite the fact that evil was seeping into every crevice of our world and the next, we would be okay."

"Cas..."

"I felt cared for." Castiel squeezes his hands so tightly that his palms sting. "You took care of me."

" _No_ , Cas, I  _hurt you_." Dean licks his lips, rubs a hand through his hair. "I was losing control. The Mark is even  _worse_  now. I'll just lose control again. I could actually _kill_ you! Don't you get that?"

Castiel stares up into Dean's face, sees the concern, the pain, the worry. His chest hurts, like oxygen is trying to burst out of his lungs. After a few seconds of silence, he gently takes Dean's hand and places it against his cheek. He holds it there in place, but judging by the way Dean's hand moulds itself to his cheek, it won't be going anywhere.

"One night, we stayed at a pay-per-hour motel somewhere south of Detroit. We experimented with the senses ― you bound me and blindfolded me. Do you remember?"

Dean licks his lips. "Yeah."

"You were in a hurry to get back to Sam, make your disappearance less suspicious, but you stayed back for an extra hour and a half. Why?"

Dean blinks, eyes drifting upwards, trying to recall that moment. "You had subdrop. Like,  _really bad_  subdrop. You were shaking like crazy."

"What did you do during that hour and a half that you stayed back?"

"I...I gave you a massage, didn't I? While we watched some crappy movie made in the seventies."

"You massaged my wrists, my thighs and my shoulders. You kissed me anywhere you could reach. You held me for an hour and helped me get dressed, then you stayed back for another thirty minutes, just to be sure I was fine."

Embarrassment colours Dean's face. He tries to pull his hand away, curl in on himself, but Castiel keeps it fixed to his cheek, rubbing a thumb against his wrist soothingly. "Jeez, Cas, no need to remind me what a huge sap I am," Dean huffs, deflecting, but Castiel continues.

"A different night, about three weeks after that. It was late, nearly two in the morning. We met at a different motel, just south of Wyoming."

"Yeah, I remember."

"You had me on my knees, and you were spanking me." The colour on Dean's cheeks reddens. "You were ruthless, you were laughing at me, you enjoyed my pain." He pauses, let's Dean absorb this information, then says, "But then you stopped halfway through. Why?"

Dean stares at Castiel, brow furrowed, like he's trying to understand what he's getting at but hasn't quite caught on yet. "You safe-worded."

"I did. Why?"

"You said it was too much. You needed me to stop."

"Yes, and you stopped."

"Well, yeah..."

"Then what happened?"

Dean scratches his neck, his other hand slipped down Castiel's face and resting in the crook of his neck. "We...hugged it out?" When Castiel nods, Dean goes on. "I think we took a shower or something. Then we watched some stupid videos on my phone."

"Yes," Castiel says, pleased. "Exactly."

"What's the point of this waltz down memory lane, exactly?" Dean asks defensively.

"To prove to you that you never once lost control," Castiel says, and Dean seems to freeze. "The Mark makes you angry, makes you violent, makes you want to hurt people. But...not with me. You  _never_  hurt me, Dean. You never lost control." He tightens his grip on Dean's wrist. "You took care of me. I never felt like I was in danger."

"Cas, I don't..." There's uncertainty in Dean's eyes now. "I don't trust myself. The Mark makes me  _kill_  people, Cas, and you're just inviting me to―to―"

"I trust you," Cas says, and something breaks in Dean's expression. "I have always trusted you." Slowly, Castiel drags Dean's hand to the side, around to the front of his neck. He adjusts Dean's grip, wrapping his fingers around his throat. Dean's breath hitches, pupils widening. Castiel's pulse beats urgently against Dean's palm. "Trust yourself ― when you had me, were you losing control? Or did you have it?"

Dean's soft exhales are the only sound in the room. Tentatively, he adjusted his grip on Castiel's neck, rubs a slow circle around his Adam's apple. Castiel stays perfectly still, waiting.

"I trust you," he repeats in a whisper.

Dean's eyes slip closed. What feels like a lifetime later, Dean says quietly, "Red, amber, green?"

"Green," Castiel replies, his hands trembling slightly.

"Are you sure?" Dean asks, and Castiel can feel a slight tremor in Dean's hands, too.

"Yes, I'm sure."

The mask descends and Dean's eyes snap open, dark and heated. He brushes his thumb against Castiel's lips, plays with them. Castiel lets him push into his mouth, traces his thumb with his tongue. The burning beneath his skin is stronger than ever, like his entire being is on fire, licking at his insides.

"I'm gonna take good care of you, angel," Dean murmurs. Castiel whines around Dean's thumb. "Just you wait."

They move quickly, desperately. Dean kisses him hard, bites at his bottom lip. He orders Castiel to strip off his coat and his tie, and then his shirt's on the floor he's being pushed back onto the bed. They've never scened in Dean's room before; the mattress is soft and welcoming. Castiel can feel his lungs straining with each breath he takes, the fullness in his chest growing to breaking point.

But then Dean's sucking the air right out of his mouth, his kisses harsh, like a dying man's (They both are, ironically enough). His hands are on him, dragging across skin, playing with nipples and working his pants down from one breath to the next.

It's not long before Dean's naked too, their warm bodies pressed together, Dean pinning him down. He marks up his neck, sucks bites into his chest, and pulls high-pitched groans from Castiel's throat with practiced finesse. Castiel runs his fingers along Dean's back, through his hair, and for a while Dean tolerates it, then growls out, "Arms above your head. Don't make me tie you up."

It's a tempting punishment, but not today. Castiel needs Dean's touch, he couldn't handle having this dragged out any longer than necessary. Obediently, he rests his arms above him, encircling his head like a halo.

When Dean fishes lube and a condom out of the bedside draw, Castiel expects to feel fingers pushing into him. He's not always the one being penetrated, but it's definitely more common. Instead, he feels Dean's hand pressing against his neck, using him for support while he works himself open. Castiel watches with wide-eyed fascination. Dean's legs are spread on either side of Castiel's hips, and he rocks back and forth between his fingers and Castiel's throat. There's a very real threat that Castiel will come before he's allowed to, so he squeezes his eyes closed, gulps in air until his blood cools just a little.

When Dean bears down on his cock, though, taking him deep into his body, Castiel's eyes snap open. A loud moan tears out of his throat. Dean grips his neck tighter, cutting off the sound efficiently. 

"Be quiet," Dean says, and Castiel bites his lip, forcing back all the noises he desperately needs to make. "I didn't say be  _silent_ , angel. Just quieter."

Once Dean's fully seated, the heat around his erection is too much to bear, the pressure too tight. Castiel chokes out a moan, fisting the sheets above his head.

"You're not gonna come, are you?" Dean asks, his voice laden with disapproval.

"No!" Castiel gasps, gripping the sheets even tighter, desperate to distract himself from the delicious pleasure flooding through his body. "No, I wouldn't, I would never―"

"Not without my permission, Castiel."

"No, of course not, I wouldn't dare―"

Dean hushes him, rocking forward to plant a finger against Castiel's lips. "No more talking. This is about me now. You don't come unless I tell you to. Nod if you understand."

Castiel nods slowly, dragging his lips up and down Dean's fingers. Dean smirks his approval, his hand trailing from his lips down his chest, finding a spot low on his abdomen. "Good, now hold on."

Dean is relentless, aggressive. During those times when he's inside Castiel, he thrusts hard and deep, hitting his prostate until Castiel's a complete and utter mess. Now, this feels different; he's surrounded, his cock encompassed in tight, overwhelming heat. Dean bounces up and down, hard and fast until Castiel has to bite into his own bicep, distract himself with enough pain that he can keep himself from coming too soon.

Dean thrusts down so hard the entire mattress moves with it, springing down and up again, propelling them. The hand clasped around his throat is firm, and even with his Grace, Castiel can feel pressure building in his head. The pressure only heightens the other sensations, though, like his pelvis is alight with ecstasy. Waves of pleasure roll down his spine, forcing him to arch up, meet Dean's thrusts, even though it's just pushing him closer to the edge.

There are some truly pathetic sounds pouring from Castiel's lips, little whimpers and groans that he can't hold back, even if Dean wanted him to. His hands are starting to ache from how hard he's been clenching them.

Castiel's had his eyes screwed shut the entire time, but something makes him want to open them, to see Dean. When he does, he sees that Dean's eyes are open as well, focused on the hand that's choking him. Or, rather, he's focused on the Mark, where it's burning hotly on his forearm. His movements are slowing down, just a little, like he's hesitating; losing confidence.

Carefully, even though he's not supposed to, Castiel drags his arm down from above his head and places his hand over the Mark, covering it completely. He can feel it, a raised scar, hot against his skin. Dean's looking at him now, and Castiel looks right back, forgetting the pleasure for just a moment.

Dean's panting, sweat on his brow. Castiel stares at him, eyes half-lidded. He squeezes Dean's forearm ― to reassure him, somehow, that everything's okay. That the Mark is not in control. Wordlessly, Dean nods, and then throws his head back, moaning.

He's bouncing harder now, forcing Castiel deeper inside him. Castiel grits his teeth and keeps one hand in the sheets, one on the Mark. He closes his eyes again but opens them when he can, just so he can see Dean, his mouth slack with pleasure, his spine arched back, neck exposed and enticing. 

Eventually, Dean notices Castiel's thighs trembling, the whines sounding off with every tiny movement of his hips. He must take pity on him; understands that he can't hold on much longer. The hand around Castiel's throat disappears and Dean fists his cock loosely, tugs on himself until he's coming all over Castiel's belly, groaning and shaking.

Castiel's erection is throbbing angrily. He's light-headed, the corners of his vision going white. He breathes in and out but the oxygen feels  _weird_ , he's too accustomed to Dean's palms against his throat. He turns his face towards the mattress, whimpering.

"Aw, what's the matter?" Dean says, his tone lighter, playful, but still in control.

"P-please," Castiel says, gasping when Dean rolls his hips.

"Please  _what?"_

"I-I don't―" He sobs, noticing for the first time that there are tears on his cheeks, blurring his vision. "Please, I need―"

Dean rolls his hips again, leisurely, deliberately, and Castiel thinks he might scream. "Look at you. You're a wreck."

Castiel folds his arms over his face, murmuring nonsense into his skin.

"It's a good look on you," Dean chuckles.

"Dean, I can't..." His toes curl, a violent shudder working its way up his spine. "N-not much longer..."

Dean grinds down in slow, agonising movements. Back and forth, back and forth. He flicks Castiel's nipple with his thumb, drawing out a hiss. "You know what?"

It's a monumental effort, but Castiel manages to move his arms away, resting them above his head again. He meets Dean's gaze and exhales, "What?"

Dean leans forward, his mouth hovering next to Castiel's ear. His breath is warm, eliciting goosebumps across his skin. He breathes in, and then whispers, "You are perfect."

Castiel squirms, a sob catching in his throat. He closes his eyes before murmuring, "Dean..."

"Yeah," Dean says, nosing along his neck. "You restrained yourself. Barely, but you managed." He huffs. "You're amazing. You were so good." He cups Castiel's cheek, brushes a thumb under his eyes, catching the tears. "I think you deserve something real nice."

"N-nice?"

"Yeah."

Suddenly Dean pulls off him, and Castiel barely stops himself from crying out. Then, Dean turns around so he's facing Castiel's legs and sinks back down on him. It's  _agony_ , everything is so good it  _hurts_.

"You can touch me, angel."

Desperately, Castiel reaches for Dean's back, trails his fingers along his spine, all the way down to his ass. Dean pulls up a little and then seats himself once more, and the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of Dean actually makes his eyes roll into the back of his head. He shudders. Dean laughs at him.

"I want you to come," Dean tells him, lifting up again. "I want you to thrust as hard as you can. You ready?"

Castiel's beyond coherent at this point. He makes a sound that's meant to be 'yes' but it sounds like nothing more than a high-pitched squeak.

Laughing again, Dean takes that as an affirmative and slams back down on him. Castiel bucks up, actually yelling now. He grips Dean's hips and shoves up into him, rough and quick, again and again. Dean's groans join his own, and it just spurs him on, pushing him higher and higher until finally ―

He shouts, he sobs, he comes inside of Dean and just keeps on thrusting, his hands probably leaving bruises on Dean's hips. It's incredible, wave after wave of ecstasy rolling through him. He'd forgotten how good it could be; how good Dean is to him. He sinks back against the mattress with Dean's name on his tongue.

It feels like there's cotton wool stuffed in his ears. He's gone completely offline. He allows himself to drift, like he's laying on a tiny boat in a big, wide ocean, just watching the clouds go by. The sun bathes him in warm light, and he feels wholly at peace.

Sometime later, he comes back to himself, and finds himself in Dean's arms. Dean's watching his face, his eyes soft. Castiel blinks at him slowly, like he's just woken up. Dean grins. "Hey, Cas."

Immediately, Castiel rolls on top of him, kissing him desperately. His body's still trembling but Dean's hands are soothing, rubbing circles into his shoulder blades. Against his lips, he can feel Dean still smiling.

"Please," Castiel pants once he finally pulls away. "Please don't push me away again."

There's a misty sheen in Dean's eyes, but he clears his throat and says, "Cas, after that performance, I ain't letting you leave this goddamn bed, okay?"

Shaking his head, Castiel huffs, still breathless. He falls forward, tucking his face into Dean's neck. For a long while they just breathe each other in. It's been far too long since they had one another like this.

"How do you feel?" Castiel asks.

Dean laughs. "Like I just had the best damn sex of my life?"

Castiel shifts to squint at him. "While I appreciate the sentiment, that's not what I mean." He finds Dean's arm, the one that bears Cain's curse. "How is the Mark?"

Dean doesn't answer straight away. They lie together quietly, Dean staring up at the ceiling, deep in thought.

"You know..." He pauses, licks his lips. "It's quiet."

"Quiet?"

"The Mark. It's not burning, like, at all." He turns to look at Castiel, and there's a strange expression on his face ― like amazement, like wonder. "It's just...quiet. Like it's not there at all."

Castiel smiles at him, running his knuckles along Dean's forearm. "That's got to be a good thing."

"Yeah," Dean says, and that expression is still there, like he's seeing Castiel for the very first time. "Yeah, it is."

**Author's Note:**

> ...Betcha thought you'd seen the last of me :P
> 
> I really hope you liked it! Hopefully something in s10-11 will inspire me to write another one of these installments, but no promises!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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